


Reddie & Loser's Club Drabbles

by xxx_Young_Blood_xxx



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Age-typical Overuse of the Word Fuck, Blood Oath Aftermath, Gen, Get Ready for the First Mention of Rick Springfield in a Fanfic Ever, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Lots of Cursing, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Richie's His Own Warning, Underage Drug Use, but nothing explicit, like a lot, punk richie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-02 01:22:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20267707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxx_Young_Blood_xxx/pseuds/xxx_Young_Blood_xxx
Summary: As the title suggests, just some drabbles I wanted to post. Cue the gang getting high, Richie seeking out Eddie after getting into a scuffle with Bowers, the Loser's Club but make it orphans, and a few more sticky situations. Chapter warnings at the beginning of every WiP.





	1. I'd Hit That

**Author's Note:**

> In all honesty, I was cleaning out the documents on my computer and found these. I'm not in the fandom anymore, however I wanted to share them anyway because I do still like reading them-- hope you will too. Also, just a warning: these WiPs obviously aren't finished, and I don't plan on finishing them. If you'd like to revolve a fic around any of these ideas though, feel free to! The only thing I ask is that you credit me. Thanks for reading!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: underage drug use, marijuana use, cursing.

"You feelin' good, Eds?" Richie asks, a fuzzy hot pink blanket-- that Eddie remembers is definitely Mike's grandmother's --surrounding his body and head in a similar fashion to E.T.

"Mm," Eddie drawls, momentarily distracted by the vibration his response creates in his throat, "yeah." The half of them who were used to the high laugh at his reply, while the others and Eddie simply smile, lazy and sluggish. A delayed response leaves his lips then:

"God, love it when ya call me that."

..._Oops_.

Beverly's lidded, red eyes widen, as do her nostrils upon hearing the confession, somehow finding the ultimate strength within herself not to outright cackle.

Mike could not do just that however, and a terribly loud guffaw fills the room instantly out of shock and amusement. This quickly becomes allergic to the entirety of the group, as everyone begins to holler out laughs and hot tears spring forward through their already bloodshot eyes, down their grinning cheeks.

After the initial surprise and a few good seconds pass for a flush to creep its way to the surface of his skin, Richie joins the laughter later on, passing it off as some weird cannabis antics because Eddie didn't _believe_ that. He's never once given anyone an inclination to assume otherwise.

Eddie was even chuckling along-- not as intensely as the others, yet he still found the happiness contagious. He hasn't fully understood what he's just admitted to, and he'll _surely_ regret and deny it later once his sober self is reminded of it... but he enjoys this for now. With his freckled cheeks healthily pink and his eyelids practically three quarters of the way closed, he casually turns his head and his gaze toward Richie.

Said trashmouth was _red_. And, sure, it definitely could have been a result of the laughing and the warmth spreading throughout the room from their body heat and hot breath. Still, Richie was paler than Eddie, and he's taken on the complexion of a goddamn strawberry. The other's fainter freckles reminded him of the seeds, and Eddie's influenced brain wonders if Richie would smell just as good as the fruit tastes. (Probably not. Eddie was just high and hungry.)

The cackles began to die down after a minute or two of trying to compose themselves, but then they all fall right back into a brief fit. Afterward, everyone wipes at their eyes with their salty popcorn hands or their shirts, some unstoppable giggles penetrating past their mouths still.

Eddie hums with a small quirk of his lips, rolling his shoulders in a relaxed, safe state. His eyes then follow where a flash from Tom and Jerry on the television screen briefly reflect in the lenses of Richie's glasses on the blanket, dangerously close to being crushed by Ben who was starting to lay down.

He snatches the spectacles before Ben's head comes into contact, blinking slowly after, now lost in the newfound swirling world around him.

"Holy..." he murmurs gutturally, blinking hard.

"_Ha.... fun.... 's?_"

"Uh," he swallows, his mouth dry and he snorts, sending a smile Richie's way. "What?"

Richie grabs his chin with two fingers gently, getting Eddie to focus on him. The boy was a bit blurry at the moment, and grinning.

...Eddie's stomach has just joined gymnastics, it seems.

"--High?" Richie chuckles, dark eyelashes embracing the gray bags under his eyes for a moment.

Eddie couldn't catch that sentence either. So, he subsequently coughs and shakes his head, offering the oversized glasses to his friend.

"Take 'em." He mumbles something else after that, low, throaty, and unsure of what his own mind was attempting to get across. Eddie thinks for a moment, feeling the smooth glide of the plastic. "They're greasy."

Stan snorts somewhere.

Richie blinks, and Eddie's vision has cleared up a bit, the dizziness slowly fading. The other reaches out and envelops the bulky glasses in his hand, as well as Eddie's fingers, and smirks. All only for a moment.

"Yeah, sorry Eds. That's just the leftover lube from last night with your mom."

Eddie scoffs and smiles lopsidedly as he pulls his hand away despite not really wanting to, the glasses in tow, before chucking the spectacles at Richie in retaliation.

"Hey, whoa-- watch it man, these're the only way I can see Bill's beautiful face." He scrambles to put them on and catches Bill smiling carefree upside-down on the couch. He sends a wink, and in one smooth motion Bill snaps and points a finger toward Richie at the compliment, in thanks.

Richie turns back to Eddie then when he hears a tiny puff, eyebrow raised.

"Oh don't gimme that 'tude Eddie; I love the gang, but you bet your face 's th'most gorgeous." Richie forces Eddie into a hug and the other sighs, struggling at first but then relaxing into it in record time.

"It better be," he mutters, and decides that Richie definitely didn't smell as good as a strawberry tasted. Weed, earth, and popcorn was so much better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good on ya if you got my weed joke in the chapter title. ;)
> 
> Comments are always welcome!


	2. Just Get to the Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: mentions of violence (but nothing explicit), blood (nothing explicit), wound cleaning (not explicit), minor anxiety attacks, cursing. Also, for the sake of this drabble, Bowers didn't get injured/disappear because of It.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I gonna make every chapter have a pun as a title? Probably.

Hasty, desperate knocking at his front door makes Eddie knit his eyebrows together in curiosity and worry. He swallows when it doesn't stop or slow down after he first few; in fact, it gets harder, louder, and more desperate.

"--_ie_!" Someone yells, but the wood is so thick Eddie can barely recognize the voice. He scrambles around in the hallway closet and finds what he's looking for, then begins to slowly advance toward the front door. The body of the door shakes with the vibrations. Eddie swallows and stiffens, halting the anxiety-ridden shivers starting to wrack his own frame.

He approaches the quivering door, trying to look through the peephole to see if it was one of his friends and his grip tightens on the handle of the aluminum bat in his hands. His mom always made an example to buy all the safer versions of sports equipment ever since he was a child: whiffle balls instead of baseballs, rubber, cloth-covered soccer balls-- that soaked up all the water when it rained and always became too heavy to kick --instead of a real soccer ball, and aluminum bats in place of wooden ones.

Eddie catches some flat, dark, wet curls in his view, and considering how tall the person is it could either be Stan or Richie.

Or a complete stranger trying to break in.

Or It.

Eddie's stomach churns at that, and his breathing increases in speed, chest tight. But now was not the time. They beat It once. Eddie could do it, he could--

"Eddie!" The person yells clearly through the wood then, and Eddie immediately deduces two things. One is that it's definitely Richie, and two, he knows that tone: scared. And no, their trashmouth friend was rarely ever frightened by something. On the contrary, really, he was usually the one doing the scaring.

Something was off in that voice, and Eddie's fears of vicious assailants disappear as he drops his weapon and steps forward to hurriedly release the four locks that sealed the door.

Richie trips inside from having been leaning on the front door, and he lands on the floor with a small groan. Eddie shakes his head, baffled and simultaneously irritated, and gestures to his friend's wet form. "You're friggin' drenched, Richie! At least take off your..." Eddie scoffs, already knowing his demands would be lost to his best friend, so he kneels down to remove Richie's muddy shoes, with... leaves, on the sole?

"You were in the Barrens?" He assumes quietly, confused as to why Richie was there during a rainstorm like this. Especially after what happened there all those months ago, Eddie couldn't even think about the place without shuddering. Or maybe that was just the open door.

Richie was panting, which also concerns Eddie. Richie never got tired. Not from biking, swimming, or talking. It was unheard of.

"Rich." He squeaks, tries not to but his throat betrays him, and he turns the practically hyperventilating boy over onto his side. His eyes widen at the bloody sight.

"Wh-- what?" He wheezes. "Wait, what the fuck?! Richie, you-- you dick face, what did you _do_?!" Eddie screeches, gawking and wondering whether or not to try and get a better look at the seemingly extensive wound beneath Richie's white wifebeater. Somehow he'd lost his button up in the storm, or a chase.

Eddie swallows, wracking his brain. A small voice in his head absently expresses a tremendous relief that his mom isn't home.

"Door," Richie whines then, raising his foot and kicking the door shut so hard that Eddie hears a picture frame fall and shatter in the living room. He winces.

"Eds..." the other boy huffs, shakily pushing himself up halfway to try to stand, but now that he knew he was somewhere safe his body's adrenaline has dropped to zero. Richie collapses back to the floor.

Eddie curses before he hooks his arms underneath Richie's armpits and yanks him up to his feet as best he can. A pained gasp emits from his best friend and Eddie wipes at his own wet eyes, noticing a damp pool on the floor as he stepped in it. Pink has coated the bottom of his white sock, and he apologizes as if Richie was coming back for that blood later.

"Ah, shut up. Just fuckin'-- heal me, Dr. Kaspbrak," he grunts in an attempt to diffuse the seriousness of the situation, putting most of his weight on the poor smaller boy. Eddie nods, a reply in the form of 'no, _you_ shut up, idiot' not even existing in his vocabulary at the moment. He leans over to lock two of the deadbolts in case someone has followed his friend here, and as fast as he was able to, leads Richie up the stairs, both arms awkwardly wrapped around the other's waist to offer him better support. Eddie's heard of mothers lifting cars up to save their kids, or people pushing a boulder off themselves in dire times. But even though this was in fact a dire time, there was no way in hell Eddie could carry Richie. Both of them knew that.

He switches on the light in the pristine bathroom, helping Richie sit down on the tile floor with his back against the tub, which in turn causes a groan and a shiver to erupt from the boy because of the chilly porcelain. Richie must be freezing. (And it didn't help that it was always a teeth-chattering 65 degrees in the house all year round. "_Heat spreads germs, sweetheart._")

"Sorry, I'm sorry--" he chokes, ripping open drawers and looking past various equipment such as masks, gloves, and even a couple small, metal, medical utensils in containers to find the supplies he absolutely needed: cotton balls, scissors, gauze, alcohol, and a stitching kit.

He crawls back over, mindlessly straddling Richie's knees for better access and, without much thought, grabs Richie's tank top to cut through the middle from hem to collar, making the other giggle tiredly.

"Wow, dude. If y'wan'ned t'get a look at my shredded--"

"Shut up, please, just--" Eddie huffs desperately, pinching Richie's bicep in a habitual punishment. Richie listens, and Eddie could maybe count on three fingers where he's listened to those words. (Was it even three? Less? Probably less.) It's terrifying.

He slowly peels away the cloth that's sticking to the wound. Good. It could be clotting already. That's good. That's...

His eyes immediately bulge upon seeing the injury, that definitely seemed like it was caused by something sharp. Bowers is definitely his first suspect. "This is-- you were _stabbed_?" Eddie looks up at Richie, who swallows and guiltily averts his eyes. He shrugs once, blinking so slow it looked like he was falling asleep.

Eddie frowns deeply at the sight. What if Richie went to sleep? Passed out? _Died_\--?

A firm slap to Richie's cheek makes him twitch awake and his eyes flutter open. The boy sighs.

"Yeah, jus'-- please Eds. My dude. Main man." God, Richie's exhausted. "Do s'mthin'."

Eddie nods and examines the slightly bleeding cut further, wary to touch it.

"Should I--?"

"Don't you waste time by washin' your hands, you asshole." Richie answers as if aware of Eddie's inner thoughts, and lightly hits the side of his head for even thinking such a thing.

Eddie grinds his teeth and reminds himself that Richie's already injured, so it'd be unethical to add a black eye onto that.

"You should be nicer to the guy that's putting your stupid 'shredded abs' back together," he mutters bitterly, making Richie huff amusedly.

When the alcohol is reached for, Richie immediately squirms, making garbled, disagreeing sounds.

"No way," he breathes out, trying to come off as firm but it's just the opposite.

Eddie flounders. "Uh, fucking yes way, dude-- do you know how many infections you could get if you don't cl--"

"Jesus, no--"

"_Yes_, Richard." Eddie settles himself harder onto Richie's legs, putting more weight on him for emphasis. (Not that it matters. All 92 pounds of Eddie hasn't hurt the other before, wouldn't now.) "Now shut your trash mouth and let me stitch this shit. I gotta clean the bathroom after this before anything stains."

He leans in close to the injury, dabbing it with some gauze to wipe away the blood so he could see the circumference of it better. Eddie's bifocals were at the shop getting repaired, so he had to get very personal with the cut to see it well. It isn't actually as terrible as he first figured it was-- shallow, even, from what he can see-- but regardless, it's a stab wound nonetheless.

Taking in Richie's nervous expression after one more glance upwards though, Eddie sighs, frowning. "I'm not gonna lie, it'll hurt. Grab so--"

The boy instantly tugs Eddie closer by the crevices of the back of his knees, almost making the bottle of alcohol fall out of Eddie's grip. He half yelps in surprise, glaring down at the other.

Richie grasps at the lower half of Eddie's large sleep shirt that swallows him, allowing his collarbones to peek through the stretched-out collar. Eddie rolls his eyes.

"Don' count down, I don' wanna know," Richie pleads quietly, body stiff and pale and gangly, but attached to Eddie.

Eddie blinks and nods even though Richie's eyes are already shut tight. "Sure, yeah."

A soaked cotton ball instantly embraces the wound with the healing venom, causing Richie to moan in agony and yank on the fabric of Eddie's shirt more.

If a medium was big on him now, Eddie couldn't imagine the length it would be once he was finished with this idiot.

"Fuckin'-- _jeez_ Eddie, no--" he exhales, obviously wanting to take a break but Eddie knows that if he took one, he'd take one after every finished cotton ball.

"One minute and I'll stitch it up, okay?"

Eddie doesn't pour any alcohol inside even though he should, he just can't stand these terrible pained noises he's never heard Richie make before. He begins suturing the wound, and notices a tear that for once isn't his own fall onto his knuckle. Eddie doesn't say anything even though he's also not once seen Richie cry since he's known him.

"You can do it," he whispers to him, dabbing at the cut again with a new cotton ball when a trickle of blood leaks out. "Just another minute. Count it, I'll be done."

After a few more seconds he notices Richie's cracked lips moving, mumbling. Muttering numbers. Eddie swallows a small smile, telling him to relax whenever he felt stomach muscles contract beneath his hands.

When the promised minute is up, Eddie sits back and studies his work. In turn, Richie finally opens his eyes and looks down at it, his eyebrows furrowing in what Eddie can only assume is disbelief and pain.

"...Don't you dare touch it Richie, I swear to _guh_\--"

Richie pulls him down into a tight hug by his waist, and Eddie's back arches awkwardly so he avoids his stomach, but after a moment, still tardily wraps his arms around Richie's neck, cheek fitting into the crook of his friend's throat below the point of his jaw. He sniffs once, squeezing harder. "Idiot... you shoulda gone to the hospital. Don't _scare_ me like that again."  
  
The other boy's response is nearly instantaneous, and rough with emotion. "Yeah. Yeah, you got it, Eds."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always welcome!


	3. I've Been Cool With the Lines-- Ain't That the Way Love Supposed To Be?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: group disassociation, group depression, parodied version of Rick Springfield's "Jessie's Girl". (I'd suggest looking up the lyrics if you don't already know them.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A take on the Losers post-blood oath, but instead of going their separate ways right after defeating It, they went to a diner.

A college-age girl who looks to be a few beers deep skips over to the jukebox near the door of the diner. She leans against it with one forearm, bracing herself against the machine while her other hand settles on her waist. Her back is arched, ass poised, and her lower back tattoo is out and proud below the hem of her halter top.

Richie's bulbous eyes blink behind his Coke bottle spectacles as he watches her put in a quarter, and tap manicured nails on the neon plastic as she chooses a song.

A riff the whole place knows instantly begins some seconds later, and an older boy casually walks up to her, presumably her boyfriend, to wrap his hands around her waist. He spins her around and they grin at each other, just like the gang was not doing. No eye contact, no words, no expressions. Just breaths and slow, tired blinking. They made it out of the sewers this afternoon... but really, the emotional turmoil that's following isn't exactly preferable.

Richie swallows, and nudges Eddie with his knee where they're squashed together from the tightness of sharing a booth with seven people.

"Eddie is a friend," Richie begins to parody, a weak excitement spiraling deep from within his stomach, buzzing in his chest to either die out like a flame like it's been doing quite a lot these days, or burn and spark and crackle into something foreign, yet so familiar. Fun.

The music isn't loud enough to drown out how hard he was trying to make his voice as low as Rick Springfield's, and his body's clenching, shoulders hunching as he impersonates the singer.

"Yeah I know he's been a good friend of mine."

Bev swallows, and... the corner of her lips twitch upwards for just the littlest moment. Her fingers are white, wet, shining in the dull yellow restaurant light, curled around her sweating milkshake that's now just thick milk. A waste of collecting Coke bottles, really, but she didn't seem to care. It was a very comfortable habit they all accepted these days. What was there to care about when they were so tired and exhausted and terrified of seeing their worst fears come alive and clowns with unhinging, watering, razor-toothed-lined jaws every other night? Even now that they defeated It, the inclination was still hard to shake.

Despite the solemn expressions around the booth still and his best friend casually leaning against him shoulder to shoulder, unfazed that he's now the subject of such a popular song, Richie continues to sing along. Stan might kick him under the table for it, but it's worth a shot for a small percentage to catch a smile from someone. A chuckle. A _huff_ of amusement.

"But lately somethin's changed it ain't hard to define, Eddie's got himself a mom and I wanna make her mine." A minuscule snort somewhere. "And she's w_agh_\--"

The heaviest, most load-bearing smile have appeared on Bill's, Bev's, and Mike's faces, trying, as Eddie in a quick movement just straight up jabs him in the ribs with those skeleton knuckles. Bone on bone as one would think does not feel good, and there might be a small bruise later but he grins anyway, coughing out an awkward couple breathy chuckles. Eddie's bitchiness hasn't yet been crushed even under the weight of the situation, and for that constant, Richie is utterly grateful.

Their lips are cracked, dry, they're dehydrated. The skin splits and stings when they smile genuinely for the first time in a week, at the pain Richie rightfully deserves and his classic humor they're so used to. It's such a normal thing to hear, a mom joke, that makes the group forget about their horrifying mental trauma, even for a few seconds. It's refreshing.

Richie throws a lanky arm around Eddie's neck and brings him closer, the squirming boy not fighting as much as he might have a few weeks prior, but still irritated nonetheless.

"Rich," he warns, fingers clamping down on Richie's bicep and pushing, ice cold despite not ordering a chilled beverage. They matched the way Richie's gut's been feeling on the walk down the hallway at night, toward his bedroom. As if winter had created a home in his abdomen, freezing him from the inside out. Richie huffs with a smile that makes the muscles in his face ache, like they were holding up bricks. The temperature isn't welcoming and the fingers digging deep into him shouldn't be, but they are and Richie is cold, but calm, and Stan kicks him under the table. It's worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always welcome!


	4. All in Vein

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: blood (not too explicit), disassociation, depression.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another take on the Losers post-blood oath after they went their separate ways, but just Richie this time.

There isn't a word for the type of tired Richie felt when he makes it home. Physically, yes, he's exhausted from the day's events; but the heavy burden of the past few months had just suddenly set in, into his bones, his head, and all the contrasting emotions inside it. He's feeling an overflow of the sensations on the way to his room, his feet dragging themselves of their own accord, and then, once collapsed on his mattress, he felt nothing at all.

Richie's hand throbs, especially from gripping the bike handles so tightly on the way home, and his underdeveloped muscles ached with overexertion, shredded and pulled in places that would surely hurt later. But for the time being these things didn't register fully with him. All he could feel was a dull vibration throughout his limbs, his eyelids weighed down behind his glasses, and his mouth open slightly and cracked from forgetting to wet them. Every time Richie allowed his eyes to fall shut however, he saw glimpses of nightmares to come: of clowns and blood and acid and Eddie and going missing, trapped in It's lair to float just like Bev had.

His bottom lip trembles because he's just so tired, he's so _tired_ and all he wants to do is sleep.

He lays on his bed barely moving, even when his mom announces she's home, even when she calls him for dinner, even when the sun starts to go down and leaves the sky a sunburned, bright pink. When he tries to get ready for bed he feels it then: the sluggish movements, how he can barely stand in the shower. Richie watches the dried blood from his hand wash away toward the drain, revealing a small gash in its wake. He can't even bring himself to wash his hair.

His mom knocks on the door and tells him goodnight, that dinner's in the fridge if he gets hungry, and '_I know you haven't been feeling well the past few days, Rich. I'm sorry about that, but I got you some medicine-- it's in the cabinet. Love you._' He swallows and it takes what seems like hours to remove himself from the bathtub, and go to lay in his bed again. It's some hours later of not being able to sleep that he finally gets angry, because It gets to put this burden and responsibility on them for as long as they'll be able to remember, and he cries. Richie knocks over the textbooks he hasn't touched since June, kicks his backpack across the room and punches his pillows, hot tears cascading down his cheeks. He wonders if the others are feeling like this too.

And he can't stand to be in his room anymore, so he slaps the tears away beneath his glasses and opens his window to the warm, thick summer air, and climbs down the tree whose limbs were so conveniently placed by Richie's window. His hand stings as he lowers himself. He doesn't know who's house he's going to until he ends up at Eddie's, blinking at the pristine but old-looking white house. He sniffs softly and trudges over to his friend's window, locates the pile of pebbles he keeps inside the drain pipe (he used larger rocks before, but he'd accidentally cracked Eddie's window that one time and his mom thought someone was planning to take her baby away), and throws one, two, three against the pane of glass he knows leads to Eddie's room. Usually he'd climb up the lattice covered in vines to the second story roof and tap on his window, but he wasn't sure that since Eddie has that broken arm and now a fresh cut on his hand, if he was even home, or if his mom had taken him to the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always welcome!


	5. "Dick if you're nasty."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: punk Richie, distasteful flirting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for some background, this detention was from the result of Richie cheating on a "testing what you know" quiz. And it was based off of my first ever detention back in high school. Don't cheat, kids.

Detention on the very first day in his new school, twenty minutes into the first class. Already breaking records. Richie studies at the pale pink colored detention slip his new Algebra teacher, the lovely Mrs. Baldwin with a body that won't quit, has presented him with. The swooping letters correlated with the curves of her waist, and he couldn’t help the small smirk forming on his face, clenching his teeth to stop it from growing. '**CAUGHT CHEATING ON EXAM WITH PEER**' was written in the 'Reason for Detention' line, and Richie glances at the boy over his shoulder next to the window, steam practically coming out of every face orifice, cheeks the color of the slip and filled with rage, but he looked nearly ready to cry. (And also kill.) Richie bites the inside of his cheek, amused, and turns back to the woman who clears her voice expectantly.

"I hope you'll learn your lesson today Mr. Tozier, alongside Mr. Kaspbrak. I won't tolerate cheating in my classroom." She raises an eyebrow at Richie, then the kid Richie got into trouble-- Kaspbrak. Was that German or some shit? He smiles sweetly at Mrs. Baldwin. Guess he'll find out later. Hopefully his first name too.

"Will you be spanking us as punishment?" He smirks, as the class breaks out into giggles and some cackles here and there. Their teacher goes red just like the Kaspbrak kid, out of anger or embarrassment he didn't know, and her eyes widen, then fix to narrow themselves.

"One more joke of that nature and I'll have your father do just that, Mr. Tozier. Please," she says, calming down now, "take your seat." Richie flashes her a grin and winks, coolly returning to his desk next to Kaspbrak.

"...Well, now that we're gonna spend the afternoon together, might as well get to know each other," he hums, quiet, as their peers are still taking the exam. Theirs were yanked away as soon as Richie was caught glimpsing at the other kid's paper. "Name's Richie," he puts out a hand, smirking, "Dick if you're nasty."


	6. You Better Beer-lieve It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: implied underage drinking, first kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For background: the Losers had a campfire at the quarry, and played truth or dare. Richie and Eddie of course were dared to kiss, and they ended up going into the woods for a little more privacy.

With the wind dancing around their bodies, stubborn leaves hanging onto the branches above gracefully fall around them in random intervals. Occasionally they brush against his bare shins or his hair, but the temperature that seems to become even colder by the hour doesn’t affect him as it would have if Eddie weren’t against him.

Richie’s been literally dreaming of this night ever since he realized that liking someone wasn’t so disgusting after all. Granted, it wasn’t always about Eddie as he wasn’t aware that liking boys was actually a real thing until about five years ago. Yet since then, countless dates and, well, _experiences_ with his best friend have gone through his mind, just like their current one now. Except this time, it was the real deal.

Eddie smells like cheap beer, campfire smoke, and his fruity girl conditioner Richie used to make fun of him for, but secretly loved the scent it gave off whenever the other walked by. It was a cacophony of smells that didn’t quite blend very well in theory, but to Richie it was the most intoxicating combination and he wouldn’t mind smelling it forever.

He’s not drunk. Couldn’t be, with his tolerance he’s built up since he and Bev were thirteen— but, god, he felt like it. With Eddie’s weight in his arms and against his torso and the smell of fall and conditioner filling his nose, not to mention the inebriating shared kisses with the other boy— yeah, the familiar feeling of warmth and floating that comes alongside drinking is there, with barely any alcohol to activate it.

He switches to bear most of the weight on one arm while his other wraps around Eddie’s lower back, pulling him just that much closer. A content hum leaves Richie when he senses his friend’s spine curve forwards into him, and hears a very rough, breathy curse. Richie falters for a moment in his actions because he’s never heard Eddie use that tone of voice before: needy, and— fuck, turned on.

“Y’can’t do that to me Eds,” he laughs with heavy breaths leaving him. “Soon enough you’re gonna be too hot t’handle.” Richie grins, as he presses a trail of pecks back up the same way he came.


	7. Little Orphan Eddie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: underage smoking of cigarettes, instructions on how to irresponsibly pierce one's ear at home.

"Hey." Richie tosses a stick Stan's way. It makes contact with his leg, and the other boy's nostrils flaring momentarily is the only sign that he's annoyed. "You hear about the new kid coming in t'day?" He asks his best friend, sprawled out on his back on a jagged rock and hanging over the side of it, looking at the other upside-down. Stan nods and turns a page in a new comic he was reading from Richie's pile, all stolen from the convenience store down the block.  
  
"Not much, though," Stan pauses, and briefly glances up from the glossy pages and smirks in the humored yet disapproving way he usually does at Richie before returning to the story. "You're gonna break your back doing that."  
  
Richie smiles, big and all buck teeth, and replies casually, "Well, I heard that he's "_fragile_"-" he places quotations around the description with lengthy, skinny, ringed fingers. "Messed up in here," he taps his temple, "or some shit like that." Stan shrugs in response, never really interested when any newcomers arrive whereas on the contrary, Richie's nose was always in the newest gossip.  
  
Mike's voice echoes through the woods at them a few moments later, and Stan obediently stands, brushing himself off. "You coming?" He questions, not expecting Richie to follow him anyway. Said boy shakes his head yes surprisingly enough though, and takes out a loose cigarette from behind his poorly pierced ear that Beverly did a year ago with a sewing needle, ice, and a lemon for sterilization.  
  
The two friends head back to the orphanage quietly. Stan enjoys it whenever he can get it considering Richie's his friend, and Richie’s only silent because the nicotine calms him down. The other boy heads up to Richie's room probably to put away the comic, and Richie goes to sit in the lobby area with Bev and pass the cigarette between them before one of the volunteers scolds at them to put it out.  
  
They pass time by brainstorming new ideas to become roommates and skipping dinner, gossiping about the new kid. It's around seven at night when the doorbell reverberates, all rich-sounding and nothing like the interior of the home, and the younger children are held in the cafeteria so they won't overwhelm the permanent guest. Richie and Bev wait impatiently as they see Miss Carrie, a common social worker showing up here, and a skinny, scrawny kid trailing some feet behind her. Richie blows a kiss at him, a stupid greeting that Bev punches him in the arm for, laughing.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always welcome!


End file.
